


Ao I Ke Pōʻeleʻele (Light in the Darkness)

by aries_taurus



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Crying, Dark, Depression, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Survivor Guilt, Tears, Trigger warning for suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 09:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17180690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aries_taurus/pseuds/aries_taurus
Summary: He can’t have anyone near, because he can’t bear another loss, not on him, not because of his past, because of who or what he is, what he was. He... he still doesn’t know how he’ll survive this one.Steve, in the aftermath of 9.10





	Ao I Ke Pōʻeleʻele (Light in the Darkness)

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS FOR 9.10 and the sneak peeks and press release and photos for 9.11
> 
> PLEASE, READ AND HEED THE WARNINGS AND THE TAGS.  
> This isn't a happy story. It deals with suicide and an almost suicide attempt.  
> My life isn't going well at the moment and this... is a catharsis of sorts.  
> There's no need to worry for my safety, though. 
> 
> MANY THANKS to Bgharison for the hand-holding and beta reading of this thing. No, this is not the thing I hate her for. I have not written that...*Gem* yet.
> 
> So, now that you've been warned, read at your own risk. Have tissues near.
> 
> Happy soon to be New Year

Steve’s gone through loss, through grief before. Many times. 

He lost his mother, first. She may still be alive but he still lived through the loss, at the time.  He lost brothers-in-arms. 

Then, one day, fate turned its eye on him and never looked away.  

He lost Freddie.  

His father, on the very next day. 

The losses of those two men... tore him apart but... set a burning rage aflame inside him, the need to set the wrongs done to them, to Steve’s family right, motivated him, kept him going. 

It led to Five-0 and to the tangled, intricately woven web of deceit that was Wo Fat and his mother’s involvement in his life, in his father’s death, in shaping his past before he was even aware of it. 

That, in itself, led to more losses. 

In the end, it led to this, to losing Joe. 

He doesn’t understand what’s happening to him. Doesn’t understand why it’s so different. Why he can’t... get a _grip_. 

Why is losing Joes so much more painful than losing anyone else has been? Why is it... destroying him? Why is he falling apart like this? This isn’t him! 

Joe wasn’t perfect. Far from it. 

Joe lied to him, time and again. Joe lied over Shelburne, when he was being fucking tortured over it. Joe walked away from him. Joe lied about Wo Fat, about his mother, about a whole damn lot of things, but somehow, somewhere, deep in his heart, deep in his soul, it doesn’t seem to matter.  

Because Joe was there when it mattered. Joe was there when he was so homesick he almost threw his entire future away on a stolen car. Joe was there to get him through BUD/s. Joe was there... every time it mattered, Joe was there. Yeah, Joe lied, but he was _there_ , like his mother and father weren’t, and when he did lie, had the courage to do it to his face and then, face him, face up to it.  

Joe never ran away from him. 

Joe never _sent him away_. 

Joe never left. 

Joe never abandoned him. 

So maybe that’s why losing Joe feels worse than losing his father.  

Maybe losing Joe feels like losing his father, because in Steve’s heart, Joe White feels, felt more like a father than John McGarrett ever did, and damn if that doesn’t make Steve feel even worse, make him feel all sorts of guilt on top of this fathomless grief. 

The grief’s taken all the space there is inside him.  

There’s no room for his team, his friends, even Danny. 

He can’t have anyone near, because he can’t bear another loss, not on him, not because of his past, because of who or what he is, what he was. He... he still doesn’t know how he’ll survive this one. When they come looking next... It’s his life, and his alone that’ll be taken. He’ll be damned if he lets another person die for him. He’s done. Finished. He’s got nothing, _nothing_ left to give. 

It takes everything he has just to get up and feed the horses in the morning. The only reason he manages to get out of bed is their dependence on him. He hasn’t really slept since the whole thing happened, his stomach’s tied in a perpetual queasy knot, he doesn’t have the energy to shower, let alone shave. 

He just... wants it all to stop. 

Stop hurting. 

Stop being so fucking damn hard. 

Stop demanding so much of him, over and over again. 

Just... Stop. 

He doesn’t remember when he picked up the gun. 

Doesn’t recall cocking back the hammer. 

He doesn’t remember coming outside and sitting on the table. 

He watches the sun sink over the mountains and he feels cold, so damn cold, all the time. 

The sunset is beautiful but the beauty just _hurts._  

The gun feels heavy in his hand. 

Like his heart in his chest. 

He’s tired of hurting. 

He’s so damn tired. 

But it never _ever_ stops. 

Why won’t it Ever. _stop hurting?_  

He lifts his hand up and there’s cold metal on his temple and he closes his eyes and draws in a sharp breath and his finger touches the trigger-- 

He lets his arm drop with a sob, the gun clattering onto the bench and onto the dirt as it falls from nerveless fingers. What... what the fuck did he just almost- 

His hands come up to cover his face and he cries, sobbing, hiccupping and sniffling, a hole full of despair and fathomless sadness and hopelessness in his chest and it feels like his heart is going to stop or explode. His head aches, he feels sick, dizzy and so, _so_ _damn_ _cold_ Oh God, why, why won’t it ever STOP! 

Maybe he should just have pulled that fucking trig- _fuck_ what is he _thinking_? What the hell is he _doing!_ This isn’t him! 

His right hand goes to his pocket and he presses the speed-dial without looking, putting the phone to his ear as he tries to catch his breath but he can’t, can’t breathe can’t-- 

It’s like the giant hole in his chest is sucking all the air from his lungs. _He can’t breathe._  

It rings, rings, rings, and he’s afraid, _terrified,_ he’ll get voicemail- he can’t- 

“H’llo?” 

“Danny, shit, m’sorry... it’s the middle of the night, I didn’t check the time I’m sorry I, I didn’t mean to wake you I--” he stammers and hiccups.  

“Hey, hey, hey, Steve, Steve, It’s okay! It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. You okay? Steve? You there?” 

“I... Yeah,” he somehow manages to cough out. 

“You okay, babe? You don’t sound good... you sound... weird.” 

He shakes his head. “I... No... No, Danny... Shit...  I’m not okay,” he mumbles, swallowing a sob. “Can... Can you...” he says, and his voice breaks and he’s crying and fuck, he’s sure Danny can tell why because there’s a beat of thick silence.  

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m... I’m coming. You... Steve, you wait for me, okay? You promise? You... I gotta get a flight. I'm getting the first flight. I’ll be there as fast as I can but you _wait for me_ , okay? You promise? Steve, you promise?” 

It takes him time. 

It takes him probably too much time to say it. “I promise.” 

“Okay. Right back, babe, okay? Five minutes. Just hang on five minutes for me and I’ll call you back, tell you when I’ll be there.” 

“I promise.” He lets his arm drop and he waits, tears streaking down his cheeks unheeded, tricking through his beard, down his neck, wetting his t-shirt, cooling on his skin, little points of cold on his already chilled skin. 

It’s dark when the phone rings. But he answers, like he promised. 

“Hello.” 

“Steve. I’m on my way. I’ll be there in about twelve hours, okay? We can stay on the phone till I get on the plane. Okay?” 

“I’m tired, Danny.” 

“I know. I know babe. I’m coming. I’ll take care of you, okay? I promise, I’ll take care of you. Where are you, right now?” 

“Outside.” 

“You safe?” 

He shivers. “I’m... cold. I’m so tired, Danny,” he mumbles through the endless, endless tears. 

“Babe, I want you to go inside. Get in the shower. Get warm, okay?” 

Steve drags in a wet, harsh breath. “Okay.” He makes himself stand and get back inside. “I’m inside.” 

“Okay, now get in the shower. I’ll talk you through it, okay?” 

“Yeah. Okay,” he says, dragging his feet towards the bathroom and into the shower. He stands under the hot water, until the shivering stops. It takes a long, long time for the water to run clear, to wash all the grime off. Throughout, he hears Danny’s voice mixed in with the running water. 

When he’s done, Danny makes him eat. Nothing much, just a cup of instant soup mix thing. He fights to keep it down, keep it in. 

Then, Danny has him go to bed, promising him he’ll be there when Steve wakes up again. He listens to Danny’s voice, his lifeline, till the heaviness of sleep overwhelms him. 

 

* * *

 

The border of asleep and awake is fractured, jagged and broken. He can’t tell if he’s really awake, if he’s lost in his memories or ravaged by nightmares but his mind is filled with blood, choking dust, gunfire, screams of agony and pain, so much raw pain. His ears are ringing with a continuous high whistle but the images keeps cutting out. The stench of burned cordite, high explosives and burned flesh is thick in his throat. 

He wakes with a sharp, shuddering, choking inhale. He barely has time to lean over the side of the bed to retch over the floor. There’s nothing in him to bring up but bile and what little soup he managed to force down hours ago but the image and sense memory of Cole’s burned, ravaged face and Joe’s cold bloodied corpse in his arms keep him trying for long, painful minutes. 

When it finally stops, he barely has the energy to drag his body back over the bed. He shivers, drenched in cold sweat and freezing again. He swallows and drags out his hand towards the wall, where he knows the covers are bunched. His fingers close over the rough blankets and he pulls them over his trembling body, fresh tears leaking from his eyes, trickling into his hair. 

He's so damn tired, he just wants peace. He just wants this all to _stop_ _, to sleep._   

He can hear Joe screaming in his head _“You’ll sleep when you’re dead!”_ but that was during BUD/s and now Joe’s the one that’s dead. Steve’s the one who should be, who _wants_ to be. 

He promised Danny he’d be there when he got here. He _promised_. 

Once the shivering subsides, he reaches a hand out of the blankets to find his cell phone, checking the time.  

Four hours till sunrise. 

Six till Danny arrives. 

Halfway there. 

Joe’s dead, gone, because of him. Anyone he cares about is in danger because of him. 

He shouldn’t have called Danny. He just put him in danger. He’s going to make orphans out of Grace and Charlie, because everyone who ever meant anything to him winds up dead. 

The whole maelstrom starts again in his head; guilt, grief, pain, both physical and emotional, exhaustion so deep he doesn’t know how to handle. He's a god damn SEAL. He’s supposed to handle this! SEALS are known for their physical prowess and mental fortitude, but he has no friggin clue where his has gone. It’s just one more proof of how worthless and useless he’s become. 

There’s just... nothing but this giant, pain-filled hole inside his chest, this dark cloud of sorrow in his head. It just hurts _so much._  

If he could just... _think clearly_ , maybe he could make some sense of this whole mess, but he’s stuck in this storm and he can’t sleep and he can’t think and... 

He growls and shoves the covers off, sitting up in one violent move, burying his head in his hands, fingers clutching at his sweaty hair. The room feels like it’s tilting, even in the dark and with his eyes closed. He swallows a new rush of nausea and lets his elbows rest on his knees. His head pounds and he feels lightheaded, woozy... 

He lets himself fall back onto the bed, breathing shallowly.  

Maybe... if he just... rests... 

 

* * *

 

His eyes open with a sharp inhale and there’s someone there, a hand on his arm, right in his face. 

Before he’s conscious of reacting, whomever was in his face is in an arm lock across the foot of the bed with his knee on their back. 

“WHOA! HEY, HEY, HEY! LET GO! STEVE! IT’S ME! OW FUCK LET GO BEFORE YOU WRECK MY ARM! LET GO! LET GO! STEVE! LET GO! ARGH!” 

 _Danny._  

The voice, the face, the tone, the shape... everything registers all at once in his brain and he lets go, flooded with sudden guilt and horror. He goes cold, stomach dropping like a stone, jaw dropping with shock. He scrambles back on the bed, his back hitting the wall with a hard thump, heart hammering in his chest with adrenaline and shame. 

“Ow, dammit OW! Danny mutters as he slowly turns to face him, rubbing at his shoulder. “Damn it, Steve, I’ve been shaking you for ten minutes! I think you’d know it was me trying to wake you by now!” 

Steve drags his legs up, leans his elbows on his knees and drops his head into his hands. “I’m sorry, Danny,” he breathes, trying to get his heart to slow down. He clutches at his hair, trying to stop his hands from shaking but his whole body shivers with sudden cold sweats. 

“Yeah, well, I guess I should have known better,” Danny says, his voice slightly strained as he hauls himself up on the bed to sit by Steve’s side. “Shaking a SEAL awake, what was I thinking.” 

Steve feels him shuffle closer still, till his body flush to his, a warm touch on his perpetually cold body. 

“Hey. It’s okay,” Danny says, his tone kind “Wasn’t my bad elbow.” 

He shakes his head. “No, it isn’t. I could’ve... I hurt you. I shouldn’t’ve... You shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have asked you to come,” Steve whispers, feeling brand new tears sting at his eyes. God, he’s such a _mess._  

Danny moves and grasps his wrist and holds on tight. “No. Stop that, right now. You called, you ask for me to come, I come. You forget I’m a damn good detective, sometimes, Steve. I know a call for help when I hear one. Why’d you think I asked you for a promise to wait for me, huh?” Danny asks in this soft, gravely tone Steve knows he uses just for family, for these... moments when all their walls and barriers are down, when... when they’re their most vulnerable. 

He just shakes his head as more tears fall from his eyes. 

“I asked you for a promise because I wanted to find my best friend in one piece when I got here. I had some guys in my precinct in Jersey eat their guns before, okay? So, I know... what these kinds of calls sound like. Tell me. How close... how close did you come?” 

He can’t. Steve shakes his head, more and more tears falling. He can’t... admit to that _weakness._ _Not to Danny._  

He feels Danny’s arm go around his shoulders, draw him close. “It’s okay. You’re safe with me, and I’m gonna take care of you. I just need you to be honest with me. That’s all I ask. I’ve never lied to you, Steve, you know that. But to be there for you the way you need me to be, for me to get you the help you need, you gotta tell me where your head is at, babe. Please. I promise you, _nothing_ you can say will change what I think of you and _nothing_ will push me away. Okay?” 

He nods, crying again. “Okay.” 

“How close?” Danny asks softly again. 

Steve swallows. “Put the gun to my head,” he says, almost like a question, almost like he’s asking himself if he really did that, if he really did go that far, his voice strangled and choked. “Finger... Touched the trigger. Scared myself half to death,” he says with a mirthless, wet chuckle. 

“Okay. Did you... Had you planned it?” 

“No. Don’t... I don’t even remember getting the gun or... going outside with it.” 

“Where is it now?” 

“Where I dropped it. On the ground by the table, outside.” 

“Okay. That mess on the floor, since when has that been there?” 

Steve shakes his head. “Middle of the night, sometime. Nightmare.” When he says the word, the images from the horrid dream flood his mind and Cole’s burned face is right there, Joe’s cold body is in his arms. He gulps and shudders, swallowing a sob. “They’re all dead because of me. Joe... Joe’s dead because of me. You.. You need to leave. Before... Before you get killed too.” 

“Oh, babe, babe, no. Stop that right now. I’m not leaving. Not when you’re hurting like this. Besides I got a gun and I know how to use it.” 

“I... I couldn’t protect him,” Steve whispers. “Joe... he... He’s dead, Danny,” Steve says and the pain inside spills out, his voice cracks and breaks. He’s crying and _he can’t stop and he_ knows Danny can _see._ It’s not like in that moldy, wet basement room; he can’t swallow it down. It’s not remembered grief. This is a fresh, gaping bleeding wound. 

“It’s okay, babe. I know it hurts, but it’s not your fault. I know how much you loved him.” 

Steve shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut, pushing out a flood of tears, the swirling, stormy mixture of guilt and sorrow stirring inside the perpetual hole in his chest. “No. I... It’s wrong. I shouldn’t...” 

“What do you mean, you shouldn’t? Shouldn’t feel like this? After losing the man that was more of a father than your _actual father?_ Knowing how you idolized John, I can’t even begin to _imagine_ how much losing Joe hurts, babe. Is that what’s screwing with your head? You didn’t think it could hurt this much, losing Joe, or... Or is it because it feels worse than losing your dad? 

How. 

How does Danny know? How did Danny know? How did he find out? 

He doesn’t know how to answer, can’t even begin to find words through the gaping hole of sorrow and guilt and pain. He can just shake his hand out of Danny’s grasp and grab at his hair, tossing his head from side to side. 

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. I get it. I swear to god babe, I do. You loved Joe. You _loved_ him. He was more your of a father to you than your dad. Don’t you think I guessed that already? Don’t you think I actually _know_ that? Don’t you think I know _you_ well enough to have figured that out, huh?” Danny says gently, rubbing his arm and shoulders. “And don’t you think I know you well enough to know that the guilt you’re feeling is eating up at you because you think it’s wrong you’re this broken up about Joe dying and you weren’t when your dad died?” 

Hearing Danny say out loud the things spinning through his head makes it all feel even more real, makes it hurt that much more. He shakes his head once, hard. “Stop it,” he spits. “Don’t... Shut up,” he hiccups through yet more unstoppable tears. He clutches at his hair, pulling at it, his nails scraping his scalp 

Danny’s arm tightens around his shoulders and his other hand comes to cradle his neck, gently pulling until his head comes to rest on Danny’s shoulder. He resists, but... Danny’s hand on his neck, the warmth around his shoulders... the comfort... He surrenders to it and just lets himself cry.  

One of Danny’s hands closes over one of his, untangling it from his hair, massaging his scalp 

He doesn’t know how long it takes, how long it is before Danny speaks again. 

“Babe, grief isn’t a competition. There's no right or wrong way to feel. What you feel is what you feel, and it’s okay. Showing that you hurt isn’t... weak. It’s human. And... You’ve been strong for so, so long, and you’ve been dealt so, so many blows... You’re not indestructible. You’re allowed to hurt.” 

“I know,” Steve huffs, nodding against Danny’s shoulder. “It’s not a choice... It just.. Doesn’t... stop. I want it to stop,” he croaks, shaking in Danny’s arms. “I just want it to stop.” 

“I know. You deserve some peace, a break from all this, more than anyone I know. So for now, today, you let me take charge. You just rest. Okay? Just... let go. Let me take care o’ you, ‘kay?” 

“Okay. Okay.” 

“Good. Good. Now... you’re shivering, you cold?” 

“Y... yeah. Cold... can’t get warm. Headache... s’ pretty bad.” 

“Hm. I bet haven’t changed those bandages of yours in days. Oh buddy...” 

Somehow, Danny snakes his hand through his arms and onto his forehead. “You can’t get warm and you feel like shit, well, like more shit because you have a fever. One of your wounds must’ve gotten infected. Plus, I bet the headache is from a concussion you didn’t bother to get treated. Junior told me you got whacked in the head with a frying pan and that... mess out there tells me you probably got your head rattled a few more times. What you need is some food, and a doctor, and we’ll go from there.” 

“Danny I can’t... It’s not... You’re not safe here. Hassan--” 

“You let me worry about him for now. Okay? You just lie down and try to sleep.” 

Somehow, Danny moves him, gets him on his side, gets the blankets back on him. There’s a cup pressed at his lips, water. He drinks greedily, choking on the cool liquid, some of it tricking down his chin, down his neck. 

Danny makes him swallow pills too, sits on the bed while Steve lays his head on the pillow. He lets his eyes close. Danny’s there. He can sleep a bit. Maybe... Maybe Danny can keep the nightmares away.  

Just for a little while. 

 

* * *

 

Everything is fuzzy. Confused. 

He thinks he maybe wakes up but he’s not sure. Maybe it’s another dream.  

Danny’s there with... someone. Someone else. A man he doesn’t know.  

The man is trying to torture him but Danny wants to let him, keeps saying it’s okay, says it’s for his own good. 

Danny doesn’t lie. 

So, he listens to Danny, even when it hurts. 

There’s pain at the edges, but it goes away, as soon as Danny’s hand brushes his skin. 

He sinks back into the dark, into the depths where there are no dreams. 

 

* * *

 

Waking up is... difficult. It’s like swimming up through a haze of mud. When Steve finally manages to open his eyes, the room is dim, the only light coming from the corridor leading to the kitchen. His body feels heavy, leaden, like he’s been sleeping in the same position for hours and hours. He swallows, his mouth feeling gummy and gross, his eyes dry and crusty. He untangles his right hand from the blankets to rub at his face but he freezes when something pulls painfully in the crook of his elbow. 

He lifts his arm to look and sure enough, there’s an IV catheter in his arm, hooked up to a bag of... He follows the line up to a nail in the wall, where a bag of fluids is hanging. It’s too hard to read the inscription on the bag in the dark but he’s willing to bet on Ringer’s Lactate. There’s a second, smaller bag attached to the tubing, nailed higher on the wall, probably an antibiotic. 

Judging from the pressure in his bladder, it’s probably not the first bag of fluids, either. 

He inhales slowly and exhales, sitting up slowly on the side of the bed. He guesses Danny was right; he maybe did need to see a doctor. Clearly, he was dehydrated, because he feels much better, having gotten some fluids. The headache that’s been plaguing him for the past few days is nowhere near as bad and the dizziness is all but gone. He still feels a bit chilly and aching but he figures if whomever put in the IV thought it necessary to put him on intravenous antibiotics, he isn’t surprised he still has a fever. 

At least me managed to sleep without waking up screaming, he thinks grimly. 

He hears the floor creak and a shadow falls across the door. 

“You’re awake,” Danny says, sounding pleased. 

“Yeah.” 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Better,” he croaks. He clears his throat and gestures to the IV. “This helped a lot I think.” 

“Yeah, well, the guy said you can take it out after that bag finishes running. You can switch to pills for the antibiotics, but if the fever goes above 103 you need to go to the hospital.” 

“Okay. Look, Danny...” 

“Just... Not tonight, okay? Don’t say you’re sorry tonight. And don’t say thanks. You don’t need to apologize for anything, and you don’t need to thank me. You’ve done the same for me, and you’ll do it again one day. This is how this works. We’re there for each other, yeah?” 

“Yeah. Okay.” 

“Now, I got some food ready. Don’t ask me how, in that disaster area of a kitchen, bit I managed to cook some food. You hungry?” 

Now that he thinks about it, yeah, he’s hungry. “Starving, actually.” 

“Okay. Come on. We’ll eat. Then we’ll talk.” 

Danny makes him eat oatmeal and drink milk, takes out the IV, gives him pills, changes his bandages and Steve can’t even think about saying no. Danny’s quiet overbearingness feels... safe. Soothing. Like he can somehow... let go. Like he can... maybe lay his burden down for a minute, take a knee, take a breath. 

Maybe he... Maybe he’s a little broken. Maybe... with Danny to watch his back, he can... acknowledge he’s bleeding a little, inside. Maybe it’s not a little. Maybe, just.... Maybe it’s a lot, and that with Danny there, he’ll be safe and okay if... 

Maybe...  

Maybe if he tells Danny about how... messed up, how _hurt_ he is, deep inside, maybe Danny can... stand watch. Keep him safe. 

So, when they’re sitting on the couch, in the living room that Danny cleaned up, scrubbed clean of blood and bullet casings, with cups of coffee with whiskey in them, when it’s quiet, when Danny’s there, by his side, when there’s nothing but that... silence that _speaks_ between them, does he find the strength to say the words. 

“I’m... I don’t... think...” he sighs, tries again, forces out the words he needs to say. They come out broken like shards of glass, and they hurt just as much to say. “I’m not okay, Danny.” 

“I know. But you’re gonna be.” 

He believes him. He believes Danny because he says those words like a promise. 

Because Joe might have been his father, deep in his heart, Danny is his guiding light. 

 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Please, leave a comment or Kudos if you are so moved.


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